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Long before I understood the systemic consequences of Black Maternal Health Week is incomplete without our an integral part of holistic maternity care” that empowers Black women and birthing people as they make decisions in pregnancy. Still, despite this recognition, abortion stories remain largely absent from public discussions of restrictive abortion policies and an increase in maternal mortality.

In the U.S., the impact of abortion bans, criminalization, and stigma is visible in the tragic stories of Black women lost. Stories of Black women like Candi Miller, Tierra Walker, and Ciji Graham undeniably prove that abortion access is a maternal health issue. But Amber Nicole Thurman‘s death—the result of a 20-hour treatment delay after retained fetal tissue led to infection—causes particular pain due to echoes of my own experience. Alexia Moore reveals we’re more likely to face consequences of anti-choice legislation as well.

These accounts reveal how abortion stigma intensifies the disproportionate risks we face in pregnancy and birth. While sharing our stories cannot guarantee change or prevent every unnecessary death, silence only enables coercion, shame, and control. However, Black communities have long drawn on self-led reproductive autonomy as a means of control over their own lives.

Teyler Wallace, a holistic chef, postpartum doula, urban farmer, maternal wellness coach, mother, and Executive Director of Doula For The People, says abortions have been used as a tool for reproductive agency in indigenous and enslaved communities throughout history. “It just went by a different name — often called “calling on your moon” or “calling on your menses.” Wallace notes this form of body literacy has largely been lost. “For Black women who endured the atrocities of slavery, and who were often victims of rape and sexual abuse, a deep understanding of their bodies and natural abortifacients was one of the few ways they could regain control of their reproductive rights.”

Today, acknowledging this intense anti-choice climate, Mali Collins, PhD, doula and assistant professor of African American Studies at American University, points out: “It is admittedly a scary time to talk about having had an abortion or that you are considering having one.” She continues, “Everyone has their own gauge of what they want to share about their bodies. If and how much you share can have serious consequences, but being brave, depending on how that feels for you, can be liberating as well.”

Collins notes that discussing abortion creates space for pleasure and sexuality alongside more difficult territory like pressure and coercion — and expands how we understand community. “Another aspect of this liberation is that having had an abortion connects individuals to a community: You join a legacy of people who have chosen self-determination of bodily autonomy,” she says.

Until recently, abortion seekers were often the subject of stories, not storytellers. Recognizing the importance of narrative ownership, organizations like We Testify, Sistersong, and Free Black Motherhood now create spaces for Black people and people of color to share layered, sometimes painful or complicated, reproductive stories. Books like Liberating Abortion, written by We Testify founder and former executive director Renee Bracey Sherman, co-authored with Regina Mahoney, highlight the empowering narratives of abortion and the untold role Black women play in advancing abortion access and discourse. It reminds us that telling our stories, on our terms, is itself an act of power.

I’ve found community and healing knowing my abortion story walks into the room with me. That experience, though emotionally layered, was a first step toward crafting my reproductive life and, eventually, my motherhood on my own terms. Looking back, I see Black maternal wisdom in the legacy of those who used tools to understand their bodies, whether through botanical, medical, or surgical means. I also hold space for abortion stories that represent coercion, wanted children who didn’t arrive earthside, and severed relationships with loved ones. All of these accounts belong, and when they are told, we should be the ones to tell them.

Wallace offers an invitation to move beyond calls for “justice” toward reproductive liberation, particularly amid continued threats to human and civil rights. The Black women who coined reproductive justice understood that abortion access is only one step. Like other vital resources (food, education, freedom from violence), abortion care helps shift us from surviving to thriving.

Too often, Black liberation movements prioritize legibility over authentic complexity. The fight for safe birth, the demand for an end to sterilization, the battle against infertility, access to birth control and sexual education, and access to abortion aren’t competing priorities. Black women have spearheaded every area, from legalization to health care access, to sexual education, and, more recently, to prioritizing joy and pleasure, because we know we deserve them all. The reproductive continuum isn’t either-or but an if-and-when approach, with different tools at different times.

This Black Maternal Health Week, I want us to remember that neither the calls for change nor the celebration is complete without our abortion stories. The movement is richer when our voices are heard.

The post Black Maternal Health Week Isn’t Complete Without Our Abortion Stories appeared first on Essence.